Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [7]
“But their use may be frowned upon.”
“Yes.”
“Still, you will carry one. Won’t you?”
“Of courseˇ Why?”
It was hard to tell what kinds of thoughts were taking shape behind those void-black Klingon eyes. Worf seemed to straighten a little in preparation for his next remark.
“There are few situations that do not have at least the potential to become dangerous. An ally—one who is immediately accessible—may prove quite valuable should trouble arise.”
Riker was touched by the offer. But he didn’t say so. It would only have embarrassed Worf, and to a Klingon, being embarrassed was worse than being flayed alive. The latter situation, at least, was something they were emotionally equipped for.
“I don’t think the Federation had it in mind for anyone besides me to go. Besides, I’m in good hands. I’ve been assigned someone who works for Criathis, the madraga from which the seal was stolen.”
“Someone who works there?” said Worf, his voice dripping with disdain.
“We’re not talking about a bureaucrat,” advised Riker. “He’s a retainer—a lifelong employee of the madraga, specially trained to protect the house, its officers, and its interests in any way necessary. That includes hand-to-hand combat, the use of weapons, clandestine operations … Come to think of it, these retainers have a lot in common with security officers.”
The Klingon grunted at the gibe. “But they are not security officers.” Obviously he was unimpressed.
“No,” agreed the first officer. “They’re not. Nor do they operate by the same set of rules. But from what I saw during my last visit to Imprima, they are quite effective.”
Worf did not belabor the point. He rose, considering Riker past the high bony ridge of his nose.
“If you find this retainer is insufficient …” He shrugged again. “I do not expect that I will be otherwise occupied.”
The human stood, too. This time, he had to say something. “I appreciate that, Mr. Worf.”
Without another word, the Klingon turned and walked out of the cabin. The door yielded at his approach and remained open for a second or two after he was gone. That’s how brisk his exit was.
Riker marveled at his luck. What had he done to deserve a friendship like Worf’s?
Or for that matter, like Teller Conlon’s?
Perhaps, in Teller’s case, not enough. He hoped it wasn’t too late to make up for that deficit.
“We did it, Will. We actually did it.”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“I mean we honest-to-God did it!”
“I think you said that already.”
Teller grinned that grin that drove women wild. He set his glass down, leaned back in his chair and ran freckled fingers through thick reddish blond hair. “I wish I could see the faces of the Ferengi when they get the news. Are they going to be fuming or what?”
“Fuming? You think so? Just because they lost one of their primary sources of hydranium and dolacite? You think that’s going to bother a philosophical bunch like the Ferengi?”
They laughed. And laughed again.
Heads turned. A couple of women, one in the red of Terrin and another in the green of Ekariah, seemed to share in their amusement.
Riker lifted his glass to them. “Terrin and Ekariah on friendly terms. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me that now Terrin ‘s got more influence than Rhurig has. At least with Ekariah.”
A small space in time, filled with music and the sound of someone singing. Riker took it all in.
“You know, Teller, I’ve enjoyed this. I really have. But it’ll be good to get back to the Yorktown.”
“Sure, real good. I’ll bet you’ve missed the hell out of Captain Leadbelly.”
“That’s Ledbetter to you, Lieutenant. And maybe I haven’t missed him, but I’ve missed a lot of other things. You know what I mean—being out there. “Riker blushed. “You know what I mean.”
Teller nodded. “Yes. You can spare me the John Masefield bit. I’ve been there, just as you have. I’ve whispered my share of secrets to the stars.” He seemed to withdraw a little; his eyes sought the table between them. “Naturally that makes it a bit more